I Should Punch You
by BrittFaceNess
Summary: "John, I will tell you however many times you want me to. I am sorry. But I don't regret it. I would rather have you mad at me for the rest of our lives, than you dead because of me."


**_a/n: _I had to somehow release these built-up Reichenbach feelings (oh boy less than 24 hours away), so here's a fanfic of three years later. **

**I needed SOMETHING happy.**

**Enjoy~**

**Review~**

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It was an odd sort of reunion, and it was definitely not the type John Watson had imagined. He, admittedly, did daydream and try to think of how it would exactly happen. The consulting detective running into the flat, apologizing up and down (that one vanished quite quickly, mind you), or the doctor stepping out of the flat's door and practically running his old flat mate over, who had been standing outside for quite a while contemplating what to do. But this was the last thing that he ever could have imagined happening.

Then there was the small little detail that John didn't exactly know if the detective would even come back – or even be alive for that matter. Of course, John always had hope. No body was found – which meant John could still have an excuse to think this.

The three years had been hard on him – harder than one would imagine. The first year was horrific – the limp returned, and he had to go through all of the man's possessions. The second year was filled with nightmares and such. He had been on the third year now – and this year the angst had slowly been replaced with silent grief.

And now – now that amazing sociopath was standing in front of John.

He looked the same. The same curly, raven-black hair with the same stunning eyes, and the same piercing stare. The same long, black coat with the too-tight button up shirt underneath. The same smile, the same frown. Almost everything about him was the same - except for the hint of shadow under those amazing eyes and a bit of uncertainty settling there.

"John."

His name on the sociopath's lips made a lump form in the back of his throat. John's hands tightened around the take-out box he had gotten from Angelo's just a minute ago. He still ate there, of course – but couldn't handle sitting in their regular spot by the window. It had hurt too much.

No, this was definitely not what John had imagined it to be like.

Well, what did he expect it to be? Happy? Joyful? Ecstatic? No, this man had left him three years ago, allowing John to believe he was dead. _Dead._

"John…I…"

The detective took a hesitant step forward, and then changed his mind, staying still.

"Three years." John mumbled. "Three years. You could have told me. You could have…called, I don't know. Something." John kept his eyes downcast, focusing intently on the sidewalk. He didn't know what would happen if he met the other man's eyes right now.

"John, you know I couldn't. I did not want to risk putting you in any type of danger. I…I didn't want that at all. I couldn't have lived with myself."

"So you thought making me believe _you were dead for three years was better_?" John said, his voice rising. Anger was replacing the shock and grief now. This man (he couldn't even say his _name_ at the moment), his best friend, had tricked him. Yes, it was for his safety – he realized that. But nothing had changed, had it? They had always been in danger together. Always. What had changed then?

"John…"

"No, no. I-"

"John. I'm sorry."

John pursed his lips, falling silent. He knew it was difficult for the detective to apologize, even to his only friend. Apologizing meant he had done something wrong in a way – and the consulting detective was never wrong.

He risked a glance up and was met with the pale green eyes that had haunted his dreams the past three years. The same eyes he had fallen in love with at first sight (even if he didn't want to admit it). John swallowed the lump in his throat that was beginning to form again.

"John," His voice was lower than usual. "John, I will tell you however many times you want me to. I _am_ sorry. But I don't regret it. I would rather have you mad at me for the rest of our lives, than you dead because of me."

John tried to keep a straight face – he really did. He bit his bottom lip to keep it from trembling, and formed his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. His best friend's words had cracked him.

Warmth flooded through his body, sending shivers down his spine.

"I…" John didn't know what to say. What could he say? What words matched those or even overpowered them? Those words had stunned him – left him speechless. The takeout box slowly slipped from his fingers, smashing onto the concrete by his feet but the two of them barely even noticed the distraction (rather, they noticed but didn't care).

The consulting detective took a couple steps forward, this time with more confidence and John took a deep breath, mustering up what he hoped to be a glare. "I should…punch you."

"I would deserve that." The other murmured softly. They were a foot away now, and suddenly the space seemed like too much to John.

"I…should…definitely punch you." John repeated, sounding stupid.

"As many times as you like – I won't stop you."

"I…yes…I…"

It seemed as though all of John's thought process was stomped to the ground, smothered by those pale green eyes that were currently locked onto his.

"I-"

And whatever he had been saying before was erased from his mind as the other's lips pressed gently and lightly to his own. John was lost – that's all he could think to describe the sensation. Completely, and utterly lost. Gone. Squandered. Disoriented.

_But so bloody right._

Lips slightly pulled away, eyes met, and faint smiles were shared.

The only consulting detective in the world had come back.

_His _consulting detective.

The high-functioning sociopath.

_His_ high-functioning sociopath.

Sherlock Holmes.

_His_ Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
